


Beyond Repentance

by Kemmasandi



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bad Things happening to Optimus, Coercion, Everyone’s a little bit unhinged—Wheeljack is the sanest of the bunch. Which ought to say a lot, Hacking, Humiliation, Immobilization, Mutilation, Oral Sex, Other, Psychological Warfare, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex, Torture, noncon- major consent issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured by the Decepticons after the destruction of the Autobot base, Optimus does what he must to keep himself and his fellow captive alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Repentance

**Author's Note:**

> ** >> **A kinkmeme fill for [this prompt here](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12178432#t12178432)
> 
> I’d actually had a similar idea in the works before this prompt came up—it just gave me an excuse to really do something with it… which in the end became an opportunity for me to be as much of a dick to Optimus as I possibly could. What the heck; he’s my favourite character, and everyone knows torturing one’s favourite character is fun. C:
> 
> 3/Sep.: ...I am still working on this, I promise! >.> Just got a bit carried away with other things in the meantime...
> 
> * * *

He came out of stasis fighting, or at least trying to. It took his battle-muddled processor a few kliks to catch up to the warbuild-grade restraints keeping his wrists and legs pinned in place.

Battle coding shrieked at him, targeting programs locking onto the fact that there were two other mechs in the room and they were standing _right in front of him._ Weapons tried to power up, whining and grinding uncomfortably against his systems as his T-cog failed to bring them out. His optics onlined so fast they crackled, collapsing into a pixelated blur before resetting, and the room burst into deafening noise for a moment as priorities tried to lock onto the biggest potential threat, using every available resource to identify which it was. His limbs thrashed against the restraints, sharp agony coursing through his entire neural net. He heard someone laugh faintly through his maddened systems, and fought harder— _get loose, neutralise the threat before it can neutralise me!_

Eventually it registered with his subprocessor that struggling was not helping. Optimus Prime settled, going still but not calm by any means. 

He hung limply from his restraints for a moment before screeching self-preservation protocols dragged his helm up from its defeated slump. Megatron, optics glowing their vicious red, grinned down at him.

The restraints keeping him pinned to the slab clicked back. He moved forward, sick rage pulsing on the heels of the battle-heat in his systems. Less a lunge than a stumble—and Megatron’s massive servo caught him by the neck, slamming him back against the slab. Protocols screamed warnings at him through red-tinted calculations, fans whining, exhorting him to fight back, to rip the warlord’s claws from his throat, violence blazing from his every code tree. His spark cycled sickly, servos coming up, only capable of gripping Megatron’s wrist. Disoriented from stasis, his higher processor couldn’t execute the right commands.

“Pitiful,” Megatron said, the condescending wash of his field over Optimus’ own crude and casually violating. “Incredible nevertheless, to see the great and fearsome Optimus Prime reduced to this.”

 _Fearsome?_ Optimus wanted to protest, to question, but aside from the ragged gasp of air cycling through his vents he couldn’t seem to make a sound. The world was oddly sharp, everything in painful clarity over the hyperactive hum of his sensors. He offlined his optics, wondering if something in them was glitching.

“He’s running hot,” Megatron observed, running his free hand down Optimus’ abdomen, over his primary engine. Optimus automatically recoiled from the touch, grinding himself back against the slab. “I’m sure I told you to make sure his battle systems were offline.”

“Can’t be done, not completely.” Knock Out’s voice cut, flat and haughty. “I’ve disconnected the relays to his physical weapons, but it seems he never managed to come down off battle protocols. Instant damage forced him into stasis too quickly to run the usual shutdown process, which slagged up his situational-response coding so badly I don’t have the expertise to fix it. He’s stuck like this. Permanently, unless the Matrix is as invested in his processor as his body and spark.” 

Megatron huffed, his field lashing out at no-one in particular. Optimus’ pushed back out of pure reflex. In the next moment, the magnetic weight of Megatron’s came bearing down on him with intent, crushing force. He reeled, a quiet groan bleeding from his vocaliser.

“He still intends to fight me, it seems.” Megatron sounded… proud? No, that implied some positive emotion, and all Optimus could feel from him was a dark, malevolent triumph.

“I will,” _with everything I have,_ he meant to say, but the words vanished en route to his vocaliser. He onlined his optical suite again, choking back a moan of frustration when the battle-sharp resolution refused to fade. Glyphs floated over Megatron’s helm in his HUD: _Enemy! Shoot on sight!_ Knock Out was similarly adorned, though less scored for priority.

“Hm,” Megatron said, gazing thoughtfully down at him. Optimus stared back, refusing to scowl, to show any more weakness than he already had, but unable to bring his voice to bear against the warlord. “That is quite interesting, Optimus. I wonder whether you will prove as stalwart in your resistance when you’re at my mercy.”

“Am I not already?” It slipped out between pulses of his spark, and Optimus couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Megatron chuckled, deep and satisfied. “Yes, you are. It has been a long time in the making, but here you are. You will be New Kaon’s second guest; is that not wonderful?”

“Second?” Optimus repeated, mind blank for a second before the thought exploded into his awareness with white-hot clarity. Battle protocols tore energy from his higher processors to force his limbs to move, arms wrapping around the servo holding his neck in place, bringing his pedes up and smashing a kick into Megatron’s hip. _“Who do you have?”_

Megatron stumbled, but even as Optimus found his footing again the warlord struck, smashing a huge silver fist through Optimus’ windshield, claws ripping through the outer layer of his thoracic armor. His neural net screamed in magnified agony as Megatron tore the ruined plate clean off. His legs went limp again, hydraulics failing under the stress. Megatron’s servo was still around his neck, claws pricking tantalizingly into his tension cables. 

“He really doesn’t give up, does he?” Knock Out commented, voice low with fascination. “I’d love to see what makes him tick.”

“He has not survived this long by being easily discouraged,” Megatron replied, tracing the edges of the new ragged wound on Optimus’ chest with a sharp clawtip. Optimus shivered as the touch ghosted over a ruined sensor cluster, tactile data measured over the cascade of major damage reports turning his vision purple. As much as the initial wound had hurt, the battle protocols spinning through his processor had taken over quickly. Pain was another form of data, wasted energy which in battle could be turned to productive use. Charge crackled through his circuits, slowly building up to another peak of frenzied activity.

“I will have to find something to do with you,” Megatron told him, the warlord’s wandering hand smoothing downward along his flared abdominal plating, low enough to graze the top of his interface panel. Not an intent gesture, just a suggestion. Optimus set his expression as best he could and glared his rejection. Megatron simply laughed.

“As fun as this has been, Optimus, I believe you are overstressed. The good doctor here has informed me that your systems need further time to recover.”

“Don’t put me back into stasis,” Optimus managed, clutching tight to Megatron’s arm to ease the weight on his neck. Who knew what awaited him in unconsciousness—Megatron could do anything to him. Could strip his armour, could hack his processor, could _rape_ him and he’d never know. He’d suspect, looking at the glimmering obsession which showed through when Megatron looked at him, but he wouldn’t _know_ until it was too late.

“You are my prisoner,” Megatron rumbled, stepping close enough that the vibration of his massive flight engines transmitted though atmosphere and metal, matching the desperate thrum of Optimus’ in a peculiarly tactile way. “You can demand nothing of me – you must ask instead.”

Optimus looked him straight in the optics. “I will not.”

Megatron smiled. “Then back into stasis you go.”

He let go, and Optimus collapsed at the knees, sprawled flat on the floor before he registered what had happened. Then Megatron’s weight was on him, deft fingers prying open his interface port. He thrashed, manic energy trying to throw the warlord off, and failed to notice the little red doctor crouched beside him, waiting for the perfect opportunity to plug in.

He noticed when Knock Out’s connector jacked into his systems, but by that stage it was too late to do anything about it. Medical overrides stilled his struggling limbs, and his processor slowed… stopped. 

Audial systems were the last to go. He heard a faint chuckle, and was gone.


End file.
